


exeunt

by recryption



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Road Trips, Smoking, Some Humor, implied as in it’s stated that prussia is going to die but it doesn’t happen In The Story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-11 20:51:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15324042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recryption/pseuds/recryption
Summary: It is June, 1999, and Russia thinks that maybe the whole world would be better off if he was given some time to relax, a break so that time can stop ticking relentlessly onwards- just for a few moments, at least, while he tries to make these few days last.In any case, though, East still needs to go home before the end of it all, and it’s a long way from Moscow to Berlin.(Alternatively: road trips and conversations at what feels like the end of the world.)





	exeunt

**Author's Note:**

> two quick notes: first, i refer to prussia as east throughout this fic because after 1947, he wasn't prussia anymore but east germany, and i personally hc that he changed his own name to reflect that (similarly to how he changed from the teutonic knights to prussia). second, russia calls east "vostok" - that's russian for "east"

Russia’s old car barely sputters to life, East looking at it incredulously while Russia glares at it with more of a look of resignation. The car groans when Russia loads their bags into the back, creaks with every movement that East makes in the driver’s seat.

“You sure this thing can drive more than like- what, two miles?” East asks in disbelief, hitting the dashboard and feeling the engine stutter in protest.

“Da,” Russia says. “I am sure. It is not American.”

East stares oddly at Russia, before laughing his harsh bark of a laugh and slamming his foot down on the gas pedal before Russia can completely sit down, causing Russia to curse and East’s knife-sharp smile to grow even wider. East’s pale skin glows like an angel’s in the sunrise, still grinning like a maniac despite the dark circles under his eyes and the fact that both of them can faintly make out the texture of the steering wheel through East’s fading hands.

“Don’t worry,” East says, like he can feel Russia’s anxiety in the air but has either misinterpreted it entirely or chosen to ignore what it’s about. “It’s a straight shot from here to Berlin through Belarus. Won’t take long at all.”

Russia doesn’t deign to respond, instead relaxing minutely in his seat and closing his eyes. He's here, after all, ditching his work to drive to Berlin with a country that isn’t even a country anymore. East lights up a cigarette with his spare hand, exhales smoke out the open window. The weather is pleasantly warm. Russia wonders if East will even make it the whole way.

\---

It’s September, 1998, and Russia wakes up too early in the morning to the sound of offkey German singing outside his window.

He peers outside to see East walking along the river bordering his house, wonders how his throat hasn’t dried up yet to the stinging cold, checks his clock only to see that it is five in the morning and out of all of the places that East should be singing at sunrise, it is  _not_ at Russia’s house. Especially not after East and Germany’s reunification. Unless he's here to announce that Germany's finally given up his rights to East’s territory and East's planning to rejoin Russia’s fallen union, East should be at _home_.

“Vostok!” Russia shouts out his window. East turns to look up at him.

“Not Preußen?” he yells back.

“It is too cold,” Russia calls. “Come inside.” East flashes him a thumbs-up before sticking his hands in his pockets and trudging through the knee-high snow towards Russia’s front door.

Russia changes quickly, comes downstairs to watch East wrestle with the front door to get it closed and locked against the wind.

“You always called me Preußen when I was the Deutsche Demokratische Republik.” East says, grinning, a picture of his old self as he takes off his cap and drags a hand through his messy hair. “At least you remembered not to, this time.”

“You have been Prussiya for longer than Germaniya has been Germaniya. Of course I make mistakes.” Russia smiles shallowly. “But- you have finally been unified. There is no Prussiya anymore, not even as a state, da?”

“Ja, ja,” East says, an odd expression flashing across his face. “Did you have breakfast?”

“You were the one that woke me up.”

“Good! It’s good to be awake this early. Let’s go.” East smirks, starts to swagger his way to the kitchen like he did when he used to live at Russia’s house, but Russia grabs his arm.

“Vostok, you should not be here,” Russia says, allowing an ominous tone to seep into his voice. “Unless you wish to rejoin me, and even then, I doubt the other nations would allow such a change.”

“Oh, that’s what West thought you’d say.” East laughs, but he doesn’t make eye contact with Russia. “He was _so_ fucking mad when I left, called me like forty-”

“Everyone will be very upset,” Russia warns.

“I don’t care,” East dismissively says, waving a hand. “I’m dead.”

“Da, but I do.” Russia’s grip tightens, his smile widens. “I am not supposed to have anybody here with me. And anyway, you have not died yet.”

“Russland, are you kidding?” East’s grin is forced. “Look at me, Jesus Christ.”

And Russia pauses, confused, stares at East until he finally realizes that he can see the dark wood floor through East’s pale fingertips, see the outline of his kitchen doorway through East’s silhouette, and it hits him hard enough that he lets go of East’s arm and steps back in shock.

“Ah,” Russia says. “You are-”

“I’m as good as dead,” East says, still looking as smug as he ever does, even if there is a sort of tension in his voice that wasn’t there before. “It was worse in Berlin, but it gets better when I come back, so- I’m here now. You have bread?”

“You have no more land, but you still have people,” Russia says. “Is that why?”

East pauses, shrugs, walks into the kitchen. “I guess I’ve still got supporters in your territory, or something like that. Do you have food or not?”

Russia points at the bread box, lets East putter around the kitchen while whistling old German tunes. He thinks it might be admirable, the way East still holds his head up and keeps his back straight, since there's nothing quite like the threat of death or dissolution to bring a nation’s ego down, but-

Well, East has always been something else.

“You’re fine with me living in some apartment in your territory?” East asks, mouth full of bread. “I mean, I’m probably gonna do it anyway, but I mean-”

“Your old room is empty, if you wish to stay, ” Russia says, walking to the stove to heat up a pot of water. “I have paperwork that you can get done for me.”

“I can live _here_ again?” East grins. “Awesome.”

“What will you do when you start truly fading?” Russia asks, ignoring the way East winces like he’s been burned.

“Go back home, I guess,” East says. “I mean, if West still wants to see me.”

“He is your brother.”

“Yeah, well.” He shrugs again, leaving his sentence hanging.

“Berlin, then,” Russia hums. “It is better than no plan at all.”

\---

“This is not the way to Berlin,” Russia says, suddenly.

East grins lopsidedly, his cigarette hand hanging out the window. “No, it definitely isn’t.”

“Vostok, may I ask where we are going?” Russia stares out the window almost uncomprehendingly at the cheerful _Welcome to Latvia!_ signs that they pass by because those _definitely_ should have read _Welcome to Belarus!_ instead. East is grinning so widely, Russia wonders how his face hasn’t split in half yet.

“We’re going to Königsberg first,” East says, smugly. “I thought I’d surprise you with a quick change of plans.”

“Kaliningrad,” Russia corrects, and the anger that he should’ve felt is overshadowed by this overwhelming sense of shock, this feeling that _wow, I just got played_. “And why are we going to Kaliningrad, when you said-”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s a straight shot from Moscow to Berlin or whatever.” East looks like he’s trying to keep a straight face for comedic effect but miserably failing at it. “But, Russland, it’s so _nice_ in Königsberg this time of year!”

Russia smiles very, very slowly and turns to stare East dead in the eye and East can’t hold it together, bursting out in howling laughter and having to veer to the side of the road and slam on the brakes so that he can double over giggling safely. Russia feels the strangest urge to reach over and slap East to see if it could recalibrate his brain. Maybe then East wouldn’t be following all of his stupid impulses. Maybe then they would be in Belarus’s territory and _not fucking Latvia’s_.

“Relax, Russland,” East snickers, wiping tears out of the corners of his eyes. “Holy shit. The look on your face- _scheiße_ , I think that’s the funniest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Russia puts his hands on East’s shoulders, the most threatening smile he thinks he’s ever put on plastered across his face. “Ah, Vostok,” he sighs. “Has anybody ever told you that you would look _very_ good, I imagine, with your organs _outside_ of your body?”

“Yikes, that’s terrifying,” East says, managing to hold it together for half a second only to break down again. “But oh my god- That was hilarious. I’m so fucking awesome. I can’t _believe_ you didn’t notice, was zur hölle-”

“I hope you do not have plans for tonight,” Russia grins, imagining himself tearing apart East in at least 40 different ways. “Because all of mine involve you and a kitchen knife, and I cannot imagine that you would like to die painfully two days before you’re due to pass on anyway.”

“Christ,” East says. Russia does not miss the way East’s expression flickers strangely before he’s back to his smug smile, but he can’t pinpoint what exactly had been changed. He lets go of East’s shoulders, though, and stares back out the window.

“I suppose we are going to Kaliningrad,” Russia mutters, forcing himself to relax back into his seat and stare reluctantly out the window. “Even though you do not have enough time.”

The same expression flashes back on East’s face, but he simply takes a drag off of his cigarette and steers erratically back onto the highway. “It’s Königsberg,” he insists.

“It was Twangste, actually, before you took it over.” Russia smiles. “But you do not call it Twangste anymore, do you? So now that Kaliningrad is mine, it is Kaliningrad.”

“Yeah, but nobody even remembers Twangste,” East says, but he drops the argument. “Anyway, why don’t you want to go? It’ll be fun. I love Königsberg.”

“What about ‘not enough time’ is not clear?”

“I’ve got time, we’ve got plenty-”

“You promised your brother that you would see him again, before you died,” Russia says, slowly, like he is speaking to a child. “And as I see it, you do not have much time left to get to him.”

East’s grin grows sharper, his hand tensing on the wheel. “Germany can wait.”

“I do not think-”

“The faster we get to Berlin, the faster I get to my fucking _deathbed_ , you know?” East scowls, then stops himself from talking with a sharp inhale of smoke, turning his eyes back onto the road. “Germany's got  _time_ , unlike a certain someone. He can fucking _wait_.”

Russia pauses, East’s face still twisted into a grimace like he’s eaten a rotten apple with the worm still in it. Welcome signs fade off into the distance. The grassy countryside rolls past them like water rolls past the shores of a river.

“Alright,” Russia says, breaking the silence. “I suppose we are going to Kaliningrad.” He feels like he should say something more, but East turns up the staticky Latvian pop on the radio and Russia knows that the conversation is over.

\---

“Your accent is terrible,” Russia says, almost amazed that they had even been able to order dinner with East’s heavy German accent putting emphasis on all the wrong syllables, clipping letters that needed to be dragged out, and sounding, on all accounts, like an extremely drunk foreigner when he tried to speak Latvian.

“Oh, fuck off,” East grumbles. “Give me a fry.”

Russia obliges, handing a french fry to East while he drives. “We come all the way to Riga, and you order fast food from McDonald’s?”

“Hey, nowhere else is open the whole day!” East protests. “It’s late, we don’t have _that_ much of a choice.”

“Just like we do not have much of a choice in where we stay the night,” Russia mutters, only half-jokingly, and East flashes him a harsh glare as they pull into the parking lot.

The motel is old and faded and downright _shady_ , but East still confidently opens the front door like he’s greeting an old friend, startling the poor desk attendant awake. Russia tiredly checks his watch. It's two in the morning, and he's here, in Latvia, holding East’s bag of bad American fast food, instead of sleeping in his comfortable bed at home.

“A room, please.” East leans over the counter, still grinning despite his terrible, slurred Latvian. “For two.”

“Um, we only have a single available, sir,” the mousy receptionist responds, their bleary eyes squinting tiredly up at East. “Well, at least, not until tomorrow-”

“Only a single?” East interrupts the attendant and glances up at Russia, brow furrowed. “Rus- I mean, Roma, do you mind?”

“I do not,” Russia says, in picture-perfect Latvian, and East narrows his eyes like he took Russia’s lack of an accent as a challenge.

“Alright,” East concedes, pulling out his wallet. “You take euros, right-”

Russia tunes out the rest of the one-sided conversation, retrieving their luggage from the car and coming back to East’s triumphant smile as he spins the room key around his finger and leads them to their room.

“See?” East grins. “You didn’t have to sleep in the car! I found a place. Count on the awesome me to do it, out of anyone.”

“It is… certainly _a_ room,” Russia observes. “The paint is peeling, but I am willing to look that over. And the bed seems very dusty, da? In these conditions, I doubt the shower-”

“Alright!” East says, throwing his hands up in the air. “Give me my fucking chicken nuggets, Christ.”

They eat McDonald’s at two in the morning and Russia thinks that it might be one of the worst meals he’s ever eaten. East sleeps restlessly that night, clipped fragments of battle commands slipping out under his breath, faint, almost-incomprehensible cries of _Ludwig_ and _zurückfallen_ and _suum cuique_ and _nicht das._ Russia barely sleeps at all.

\---

Sunday service is awful.

The cathedral is gorgeous, of course, like all European cathedrals are, but Russia has never been a religious man; East is the one to drag Russia to church, letting him squirm under the strangely guilting words of the priest and the watchful eyes of the people on two strangers, while he just ignores the message the whole time, staring at the ground and murmuring prayers in Latin like he’s possessed.

But Russia does not interrupt, even when service is over and everyone has cleared out and the two of them are the last ones left sitting in the pews. East has his eyes shut and hands folded together reciting what sounds like the Bible like his life depends on it. Russia stares at the stained glass windows of Mary Magdalene and St. Joseph and martyrs he’s never even heard of, their gazes almost pinning him down, keeping him trapped in that high-roofed cathedral through some mix of disdain and secondhand shame.

It takes a few long minutes, but East finally stands up, stretching, and Russia pretends not to notice that he carefully wipes his eyes free from tears before he can put on his typical grin.

“We can go,” East says lightheartedly. “Sorry. I didn’t realize everyone else already left.”

“I did not think you still spoke Latin,” Russia says, as they step out onto the busy street.

“I-” East hesitates, chewing on his lip. “Well, I didn’t think I would remember any of it either. It’s been a while since I’ve had to recite any.”

“You seem more religious than your brother, though."

“Ja, I guess I do.” East furrows his brow, like he’s thinking about something, and unconsciously moves his hand towards his throat before jerking back, stopping himself from touching the cross around his neck.

The weather is pleasant enough to walk around in, but East doesn’t want to stay. Russia drives, this time. East steadily smokes his way through another pack.

\---

“Who is Ludwig?” Russia asks, and East turns to Russia so quickly that Russia could swear his question had just burned him.

“Ludwig?” East repeats, as if he’s not quite sure he’s heard the right name. “Where’d you learn that?”

“You said it,” Russia replies, unfazed. “In your sleep.”

East’s shield of a smile is tense, but he leans casually back in his chair, watches Russia drive like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “I don’t talk in my sleep.”

“Nyet, you do not usually,” Russia says. “But last night- were you dreaming of the Teutonic Knights?”

East hums, staring out the window. “Ja, I must’ve been. I have not called West his human name since I was a Knight.”

“It is your brother’s name?”

“Ja, ja,” East says, waving a hand dismissively. “But you didn’t hear that from me. He was christened as Ludwig, but he’d never respond to it nowadays.”

“Well, what about you, Vostok?” Russia asks. He changes the radio station, but it’s still just as crackly as ever.

“Oh, I don’t use it anymore either,” East says, quickly. "It doesn't matter."

“Da, but- what is it?”

East stares out the window, and Russia can almost hear the gears turning in his head, like he’s calculating the pros and cons of telling him, before a very deliberate, “You mean what _was_ it, Russland. It was- Gilbert.”

“Gilbert,” Russia echoes.

“I used it when I was a Knight, but-” and East shrugs- “you know. Times change. I’m not really part of the Order, anymore.”

“I see,” Russia says, and he turns his eyes back on the road. “Then I will not call you Gilbert.”

“You- what?” East stares oddly at Russia, like he’s expecting more protest. “You won’t?”

“Nyet,” Russia replies. “It is not your name anymore, like Prussiya isn’t. You have a name, and it is Vostok.”

“I-” And East looks strangely torn, like he wants to argue or say something more, but he shuts his mouth and taps his fingers nervously on the dashboard. “Alright. That’s fine.”

Lithuanian pop filters in through the old car speakers, talk shows play that Russia half-understands but finds himself utterly unenthused with. No matter how East messes with the dials, there’s an all-pervading static in the sound that never seems to go away, and Russia can tell that East is getting restless, with how he fidgets in his seat, tangles his fingers in the chain of his iron cross-

“Well, what about you?” East finally asks, the words abrupt. “Your- your name, I mean.”

Russia smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Mother Russia, of course.”

“Oh,” East says, and there’s almost a sort of relief in his tone as he sighs. “Your bosses never gave you a human name? Well, that’s good. I mean- we aren’t exactly people, so that makes sense.”

Russia thinks about all the lies that he can make up in that moment to hide his own vulnerability, to keep himself as impermeable as the great empire he was built up to be, but-

Well, East had come willingly to his house at the brink of death and gave Russia his human name and he thinks that maybe there's something to speak for in those actions.

“Nyet,” Russia says finally. “I picked my own.”

“What?” East startles. “You can do that?”

“It is Ivan.” Russia forces his hands to relax around the wheel, tries to stop his shoulders from stiffening up instinctively, because having someone know that he was not only human enough to have a name but human enough to _want_ one-

“After the ruler,” East says. “Ivan the Terrible, right?”

“Da.” Russia’s smiles tensely. “It is not Roma, unfortunately, as you had guessed.”

East laughs at that, clapping a too-transparent hand to Russia’s shoulder. “It’s a good name! I like it.”

“You may use it.”

“I- what?”

“I did not stutter, Vostok.”

East pauses, gives Russia a long look, and they both know that the reason Russia is being so carelessly vulnerable is because, well, after Berlin-

“Alright,” East hums. “Ivan, then.” The Russian name is awkward in his German accent; he drags out both syllables, places emphasis when it should simply flow, but Russia finds that he doesn’t really mind.

\---

“Do you have plans on visiting every church in Europe?” Russia asks, bemused, as they walk towards the Königsberg Cathedral.

East’s expression is bright, though, and he seems happier than Russia thinks he’s seen him in weeks. His hair is framed in a glowing halo by the sunset behind him, and he could almost be an angel in that light, if not for his dark red eyes and knife-sharp grin and translucent limbs that make him look more like a ghost. Something close to fondness rises in Russia’s chest as he watches East hold back the urge to run towards the cathedral, gazing up at the towering clock spire with a sort of childish glee that Russia would never have imagined coming from a war machine like him.

“No, no,” East laughs, eyes sparkling. “They’re all the same, y'know, but- fuck, I watched this one go up. I helped _build_ this goddamn cathedral.”

East sighs wistfully, stopping at the entrance to stare up at the gracefully arched Gothic windows, the cross perched like a watchful hawk upon the steeple. Russia lets East reminisce for a minute before putting a hand on his shoulder, shocking him out of his trance.

“Show me inside, Vostok,” Russia says, and East snaps to attention, lighting up immediately and grabbing Russia’s hand and pulling him inside the cathedral.

East shows Russia the walls that he had personally put bricks into, mourns the loss of the other church spire that had been destroyed in the British bombing, grins sadistically when Russia half-jumps at the clock tower’s unexpected quarterly chime. East gathers a crowd by telling stories of the men immortalized in stone in his horribly-accented, informal Russian, marvels at the new stained glass windows that they put in, waxes poetic about Immanuel Kant and morality versus rationality for a full half-hour when they visit his tomb-

“I did not think that you liked philosophy,” Russia says, as they sit down for dinner in the fancy German restaurant that East picked out for them.

“Oh, no, I fucking hate it,” East says, still beaming, still full of bubbly energy. “It’s absolutely pretentious bullshit, but I mean- you seem like the type to get a kick out of it, so I read up a bit before I came.”

“Ah,” Russia says, smiling blankly, like he couldn’t understand why East would’ve done something like that but still wanted to be polite. “You should have asked me before you did. I do not care much for philosophy at all.”

East stares at Russia, blinking owlishly, for a second, before he bursts out laughing. Russia pushes around his food on his plate, while East eats quickly, like he’s afraid his meal would run away from him.

“You know, this place changed a lot,” East says, motioning with his fork.

“Hmm?”

“From when it was- you know, when I first came here.”

“When it was Königsberg,” Russia supplies, and East’s face twists.

“It still _is_ ,” East insists. “This whole place… god, it’s like déjà vu, or some fancy French word like that. I lived here for a long time, and then lived with you in Moscow for God-fucking-knows how long, and now everything’s the same, but _different,_ right?”

Russia smiles despite the pang of guilt that hits him, knows that even though he thought he was doing the right thing and making friends and allies, he still essentially kept East under house arrest for fifty years. He takes a sip of the cold tap water. East doesn’t seem to have noticed, still rattling on about the city.

“-like, that bookstore across the street? I wonder if they still serve coffee. Used to be my favorite fucking café,” East says, looking dreamily out the window. “And the Oberteich and Schlossteich-”

“What?”

“The Upper and Lower Ponds,” East says. “I always forget that you renamed them.”

“Ah, I did,” Russia says, and that little knot in his stomach tightens. He must’ve signed those approvals without even looking at the papers. He wonders if East holds something against him for it. He wonders if it would be worth it to ask.

“We should come here in December,” East sighs. “Ice skating here was so fun with West when he was younger. But now he grew up, and he’s busy all the time. Could swear even _I_ had more free time when I was fighting wars.”

Russia pauses, looks at the outline of East’s fork through his transparent hand, hums noncommittally in agreement even though he knows that East is merely lost in idealistic daydream. Russia pays the bill, despite East’s protests and confused laughter. East steals the driver’s seat before Russia has even stepped out of the restaurant. They drive.

\---

“You got a single again?” Russia asks, hauling his bags into the small room.

“Ja, ja,” East mumbles, turning his eyes away from Russia and busying himself with lighting up a cigarette. “It was cheaper, and anyway, I don’t want West complaining about how much money I spent to get home before I died or whatever.”

East says it at first without thinking much about it, but Russia can tell that the realization hits him the moment the words come out of his mouth. He puts a hand on East’s shoulder, while East fumbles clumsily with his lighter.

“There is a liquor store across the street. Do you want to drink?” Russia offers.

“Oh, fuck yes.” East cracks a smile. “You finally asked.”

Russia comes back to East sprawled out on the armchair, already burning through cigarettes like his life depends on it. Russia sits down on the bed. They take turns passing the cheap vodka back and forth.

“I do not think you should smoke in the room,” Russia says, but East waves his hand dismissively.

“It’s a shitty room either way,” he says.

“We will be kicked out.”

“Not if I don’t get caught.” East grins wickedly, and takes another drag, blowing dark smoke into the ceiling fan.

“Does your brother smoke?”

“No, of course not,” East scoffs. “Says it’s bad for him, or whatever.”

“Vostok, he is right.”

“Yeah, yeah, but he’s a country,” East says. “It’ll never _kill_ him.”

“It will kill you eventually, now that you have no land.”

“Not before Berlin,” East groans, eyes glinting harshly. “Lay off, it’s one of my last packs. You’re starting to sound like West.”

“I did not think that Catholicism condoned a vice like this,” Russia prods.

“Oh, come on,” East protests. “That’s a low blow. And anyway, we’re countries, or whatever the hell. The Bible doesn’t exactly talk about what happens to people like us.”

“You do not believe we will be judged as humans?”

“Christ, I don’t know!” East throws his free arm over his eyes and exhales sharply. “And I, for one, don’t want to think about it _now_. So-”

He pauses, turns back to his cigarette. Russia takes a gulp of alcohol, feels it warm his stomach, watches East’s furrowed brows and almost hears the gears turning inside his head as he thinks of what to say next. East lets out a breath of gray, looks with narrowed eyes at Russia.

“It’s too late, anyway,” East mutters. “So whatever. It’s not like _this_ cigarette is going to be what sends me to hell, after eight hundred years of doing dumb shit and declaring war on anything that moved.”

Russia watches East for what feels like a long minute, listening to the rhythmic ticking of the off-time clock on the wall, watching smoke billow out of East’s mouth and into the air, before he plucks the cigarette out of East’s hand and crushes it into the shitty motel floor.

“Scheiße!” East curses, looking at Russia in disbelief. “You-”

“You will be smoking all of tomorrow in the car,” Russia says, waving his hand in disregard. “Anyway, it is time to go to bed.”

East stares at Russia, eyes narrowed, like he’s trying to pinpoint what Russia’s intentions are, before he raises his hands in the air in defeat. “Alright,” he concedes, but his tone is still incredulous. “I guess it is.”

Russia turns off the light, listens to East’s shallow breathing in the dark, puts an arm around East’s shoulders while feigning his own sleep. He pretends not to notice that East shifts to face Russia, pretends not to notice that East is praying in almost inaudible, quick Latin under his breath.

\---

“I don’t think it’s the people keeping me alive,” East says, and he holds out his hand to Russia for inspection. “I think it’s Königsberg.”

Russia holds East’s hand gently in his, like he’s handling a fragile glass object, doesn’t bother to tell East that his fingers look as transparent as glass anyway. Russia decides to lace their hands together, is pleased when East doesn’t pull away.

“Why Königsberg?” Russia asks.

“It was my capital,” East says, staring off into the distance as he drives, eyes narrowed like he’s trying to remember something important to him. “My heart, I guess. It’s technically your territory, right? I guess I just got better being near it.”

“Maybe your prayers finally worked,” Russia remarks, and East only scowls in response.

“We’re three hours to Berlin,” East says, and he pauses, as if in realization. “ _Jesus_ , we’re only three fucking hours to Berlin.”

“Da,” Russia agrees. “Your brother must be waiting for you.”

“I don’t-” East pauses, tightens his grip around Russia’s hand. “If I make it to Berlin, that’s fucking it, isn’t it?”

“I do not think you will survive much longer than that, nyet.”

“Yeah,” East says, contemplative. “Yeah, that’ll be the end."

Russia stares at East, drinks in the details of his appearance, from his carefully messy hair to the way the morning sunlight almost streams through his pale skin. He wonders if taking a picture would help preserve his memory and make him last longer. He wonders if East would even still be in the photographs after he completely faded away.

“Prussiya,” Russia says, cautiously.

“I thought it was Vostok,” East replies lightheartedly. “What?”

“I would like to make a detour.”

East looks confused at first, but he slowly grins, squeezing Russia’s hand again. “Yeah. Yeah, let’s go. Where do you wanna drive?”

\---

“At least we aren’t at a church,” East jokes, even though they can both see the spires of the Poznań Cathedral rising above the skyline in the distance. East steals Russia's coffee occasionally, sipping at it as they walk down the street.

“We can go to one, if you want,” Russia offers, and East shakes his head empathetically.

“I only really wanted to go to the one in Königsberg. Riga was just because it was Sunday. Anyway, this coffee is good,” East says, appreciatively. “Can I keep it?”

“If you wanted one, you should have ordered it while we were at the café.”

“Well, ordering a whole coffee is so much _commitment_ ,” East complains.

“Da, it is. Which is why you are stealing mine?”

East cackles loudly, drawing people’s attention from across the street, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Their fingers brush together as they walk. Lake Malta is beautiful, from what Russia remembers, and it would hold off the end for just a few more desperate moments.

“Maybe that motel room you rented will not be worse than the last one,” Russia wonders out loud, and East punches Russia lightly on the shoulder.

“It was cheap as hell,” East protests. “It wasn’t _that_ bad.”

“They compromise quality for price, da?”

“Oh, come the fuck on,” East groans. “You can’t expect that much out of Litauen.”

Russia smiles gently, and they sit down together in the shade of a tree overlooking the lake, waves lapping gently against the artificial shoreline at their feet. People chatter in Polish behind them, sailboats float gently on the water like the clouds floating in the sky, and East looks more at peace with himself than he has in a very long time. Russia sips coffee, wonders if tomorrow will be just as beautiful, wonders if God will lead East to death’s door in the rain or in the sun. East links his arm with Russia’s, leans his head against his shoulder, closes his eyes.

“I’m tired, Ivan,” East murmurs, and Russia has to contain the jolt of electricity that shocks his body when he hears his human name out of East’s mouth.

“Are you afraid?” Russia asks, almost childishly.

“No, I don't think so,” East says. Russia doesn’t point out the fact that he can see the shadow of the bench underneath East through his legs. “I’m too cool to be afraid of- of fading.”

“Acceptance, then,” Russia guesses. Neither of them mention how East's voice had stuttered upon admitting his own death.

“Something like that.”

Russia sighs and looks off at the lake, knowing that he’s not going to get any kind of real answer out of East. A flock of birds titters softly above their heads. East’s breaths even out slowly in gradual sleep, and Russia thinks that in that moment he could be a ghost already, too-pale and too-light to be human, pockets of sunlight shining bright through his fading hair and fading limbs.

Russia picks him up easily and carries him to the car, puts him down in the back seat, and drives to the motel that they had picked out in advance. East doesn’t stir the whole way there.

\---

“You’re right,” East says, dropping his bag on the stained floor and falling backwards onto the squeaky bed. “These rooms _have_ been progressively shittier.”

“I will buy you a hotel later,” Russia says, but both of them know that they are empty words. Russia unwinds his scarf and hangs it over the armchair, and there’s once again the unspoken reason for Russia’s uncharacteristic vulnerability. “And anyway, our room in Latviya was… tolerable. I think it is Germaniya’s problem, da?”

“Oh, fuck off,” East says, but there’s no real venom in his tone. “When’d you get those?”

“Hm?”

“The scars, dummkopf.” East motions at Russia’s neck.

“Ah,” Russia says. “It was 1917.” He moves his hand up to brush over half-healing scabs he hasn't touched in years, remembers the protests, the fighting, the rush of adrenaline in his veins and the red of blood that had stained his jacket and scarf after he had joined the revolution against his ruler’s wishes-

“Civil war?” East interrupts.

“Da,” Russia agrees. “It drives a nation’s body to shreds.”

Russia changes in the bathroom, comes outside to East having wrapped himself in the blankets without changing, already looking like he's fallen half-asleep.

“Are you cold, Vostok?”

“Just tired,” East mumbles. “I don’t… it feels like my whole fucking brain’s going numb, the farther we get from Königsberg. Scheiße, I can’t fucking think.”

“There is no need to,” Russia says. He watches East settle in, wonders how long it will be until East’s eyes close for the last time, sits next to him in bed and puts a heavy hand on his shoulder in some vague form of comfort.

“Stop,” East says, turning over onto his back to shake off Russia. "You don't have to."

“What, Vostok?”

“Try to make me feel better with-” and East gestures at Russia. “-with all this.”

Russia inclines his head, looks at East with his calm, everpresent smile. “I am not sure I understand what you mean.”

“This- you know, this sappy bullshit. I’m gonna die either way. It doesn’t matter.” East pauses, turns his head away so he doesn’t have to look at Russia. “You’re just setting yourself up for disaster.”

“Prussiya, I would not do something that I did not want to do,” Russia says sincerely, pressing a kiss to the back of East’s hand. “Do you want me to stop?”

“It’s Vostok,” East says, his voice strained, but Russia doesn't think that he means it. “I don't- it’s for you, since I’ll be gone tomorrow. You’ll never see me again.”

“But I will still remember today, da?” Russia puts a hand on the back of East’s neck, feels his heartbeat quicken like a rabbit’s after being cornered by the fox. He leans down over East, watches East’s face go red. “May I?”

East makes a strangled sound in the back of his throat. “You- you can’t fucking _mean_ it.”

“Da, Prussiya, I do.”

“I-” East stammers, his hands clenching themselves into fists at his side, like he’s not sure what to do with them. “I mean. Alright. Yeah, yeah.”

Russia bends down, feels East’s hot breath come fast and shallow and nervous before kissing him sweetly, and promises himself that he will commit the moment to memory. East’s face is warm. He doesn’t meet Russia’s eyes afterwards.

“Sleep, Prussiya,” Russia says, and East turns over onto his side without bothering to correct him. “I will be here in the morning.”

“I don’t want you to remember this later, only to know that I’m dead,” East murmurs lowly. “That wasn’t worth it. Not for you, Ivan.”

Russia squeezes East’s shoulder in response. He turns off the lights, crawls in under the covers, lets East shake in his arms until he falls victim to sleep once again.

\---

“So we’re here,” Russia sighs, East’s transparent hands tense at his sides as Russia stops in an empty parking lot. The crumbled ruins of the Berlin Wall stand like a sentinel watching over them in the distance. East unbuckles his seatbelt, staring out at the city like he doesn’t want to believe his own eyes.

“Deutschland is already here,” East says, quietly. “He’s waiting at the park nearby. I told him I would be here today.”

“Will you be alright?” Russia asks, lacing one of his hands with East’s, feels his fingers burn like fire against Russia’s cold skin.

East laughs shakily. “For now, yeah. I just- god, I can’t feel my hands anymore. I’m going, Russland, I fucking know it.”

“We all knew it,” Russia says. “But that did not make us feel any better.”

“Ivan,” East murmurs, the same way he whispered Latin prayers under his breath, like the name itself is something holy, something more than Russia really is or ever can be. “I think- I don’t want to go, not yet.”

“Tomorrow will always be another day.”

East sighs, brings Russia’s hand to his cheek, closes his eyes. The two of them sit there and Russia wonders what happens after East’s pale skin fades away, after his red eyes close and do not open again. Will his old clothing still be there to rot away in his closet? Will Russia remember East’s name, hundreds of thousands of years from now? Will Germany?

“You should leave,” Russia says, partially because he thinks that if East stays any longer he will not be able to go at all. “Your brother is waiting.”

“I wish I had time,” East whispers, longingly. “If I just- I know Berlin like the back of my fucking hand, I wanna take you where the tourists don’t go-”

“Vostok,” Russia hisses.

“-to my favorite restaurants, all the bridges I took pictures of-”

“Your brother is waiting,” Russia says, but he wishes that he wasn’t. He resists the urge to kiss East again because that would only make it worse, he wants the world to stop spinning for just one goddamn _second_ so they can have this time, but- “Vostok- Prussiya, you have to _go_.”

“Yeah,” East mumbles, half-dazed. “Yeah. Yeah, I need to.”

East gets out of the car, closes the door behind him. He stares off at the crumbling Berlin Wall, for a few moments, before he starts walking towards the street. Russia watches East’s retreating figure, feels something in his chest twist like a fucking _knife_ , and he scrabbles for his seatbelt and almost flings himself out of his own car, just so he can-

“Gilbert!” Ivan yells, waving at him furiously. “Goodbye, Gilbert!”

Gilbert turns slowly, knife-sharp smile still managing to glint bright white despite the sun streaming through the rest of his body, and salutes lazily back at Ivan. Ivan watches Gilbert disappear into the crowd, watches the people envelop him like water envelops a skipping-stone after it’s sunk, thinks that if this really is the end of the world, what a compassionate end it must be.

**Author's Note:**

> _exeunt: a stage direction in a printed play to indicate that a character has left the scene_
> 
> i hope you enjoyed the read! i've been working on this... pretty obsessively for the past few days (i've got about 13k words in draftwork and scrapped scenes, haha). writing this was personally really fun - i've never really written a dynamic like this before, and it was definitely a learning experience.
> 
> some minor notes, in no particular order:  
> 1\. i don't see ivan as intentionally malicious, more like... he doesn't understand social cues very well and is cruel in a childish way (like: i'll cut apart this worm to see what happens to it), but ultimately, he does mean well and recognizes the own consequences of his actions once people react to them.  
> 2\. gilbert is a really fun character to write imo - i see him as the carefree person that doesn't particularly want to get close to anybody, but still craves intimate human interaction  
> 3\. i actually wrote the last scene of this fic very very early on. i made the decision to use their human names in the last paragraph because i see it as ivan kind of... embracing his own humanity for a few moments, knowing that it's fine to be vulnerable to gilbert, for lack of a better way to put it, haha  
> 4\. i was listening to girl by daoko, say it by yorushika, and disillusioned by maretu for... in combination probably at least 75% of the time i was writing this so. that's the mood music i guess


End file.
